?? [HR NOTICE] Rimebreak Kingdom Halloween Party ??

  Attention, citizens of Rimebreak, this year’s Halloween Celebration is officially approved by Her Majesty (after I explained why Halloween party is important).

  You are hereby invited to join the festivities and help decide which of our fine subjects wears which costume in special Halloween chapter.

  Simply join our and… persuade us why your choice fits best. Creativity will be rewarded. Bribery will be noted.

  Please note:

  ??? Deadline: All submissions must reach HR before midnight on the 30th. (Apparently, the 31st is reserved for “actual haunting.”)

  ??? Reader-character creators receive priority consideration; HR appreciates loyalty.

  ?? Excessive chaos will be tolerated until the punch bowl catches fire.

  — Lola,

  Seneschal, Human Resources, and Reluctant Event Coordinator of Rimebreak Kingdom ??

  He lowered his arms with slow, deliberate grace, and his pale eyes fixed on me, unblinking.

  “And now… you will learn why men call me the Grandmaster.”

  I let a smirk spread across my face, the kind of reckless grin you wear when you know you’re bluffing with empty cards. “And you’ll use your amazing spells to end me? Very dramatic.”

  My heart hammered while the air was suffocating with mana, thick enough to taste. The Binding Stone screamed in its death throes, the spinning circles painting the square in red, violet, and abyssal blue.

  Where’s the chaos? My plan wasn’t to stand here one-on-six like an idiot martyr. By now, the runes should have broken, the summoning should’ve been tearing the reality apart, the grandmasters should’ve been drowning in bedlam. Instead?

  Nothing.

  Just me, them, and the knowledge that they’d been ready for this all along. I flicked through options in my head like an overclocked deck of cards. Exploits? I didn’t have the right setup. Everything I thought I’d have, every cheat, every trick… not yet ready.

  The realization left me cold. No cavalry. No chaos. Just me, my tongue, and my shiny new class.

  The words blazed across my vision, and suddenly I felt it. My skin prickled as cold spiderwebbed along my arms, threads of ice etching invisible tattoos into my flesh. The Grandmaster tilted his head, as if amused by my flippancy. Then he spread one hand, palm outward, as though brushing her words aside like dust.

  “End you?” His voice was soft, almost pitying, yet carried to every corner of the city. “No, child. I am here to end illusions.”

  His other hand rose now, fingers splayed to the heavens, and the light caught the silver threads woven into his robes until he seemed crowned in pale fire.

  “Your plans are parchment. I have read every line.” He drew a slow breath, savoring the weight of revelation. “All of it. Known. Counted. Answered.”

  He pivoted, robes sweeping in an arc, to face the reflection in the heavens. “Even now, your enemy, the Empire, extends its hand. Count Itzel sends his regards. I,” the Grandmaster declared, placing a hand flat against his chest, “pledge Altandai not to your rebellion, but to the Empire’s dominion. And with my voice, your unity collapses.”

  He lifted both arms wide, like a priest unveiling holy scripture, white sleeves billowing in the charged air. His expression was the portrait of certainty, lips curved in calm triumph, eyes gleaming as though he alone had already seen the ending.

  “Let the strife among your so-called allies begin. They are no longer your soldiers. They are your executioners.” His voice fell to a whisper meant only for me, but thanks to demon magic, everyone heard it. “You never commanded this city, Queen. You only delivered yourself to me.”

  “…What?” We all stood there for a breath too long, blinking, glancing at each other.

  “Lady!” Lola’s voice.

  I whipped my head around, heart seizing in my chest. She was running toward me, hair flying, eyes wide with panic. She’d left the protection of the melee line. “No—Lola, get back!”

  “Some of the randos attacked us!” she cried. “They have an Empire quest; we have to—”

  The words cut off.

  A shadow dropped from above, silent and precise. Steel flashed. The dagger plunged deep into Lola’s throat, the blow so clean it looked rehearsed. Blood burst in a crimson arc, spraying across the cobblestones. The strike had been perfect… devastating, a critical hit no healer could hope to patch.

  Her body buckled, knees giving way as her voice gurgled into silence.

  The figure landed lightly on her, balanced as if stepping off a stage. Black from head to toe, with a long tail unfurling behind them like a whip, the assassin moved with careful precision. They pressed down, blade twisting to finish the job… not a wild strike, but a deliberate, surgical kill.

  Legendary catgirl assassin?!

  Lola’s hand reached toward me once, shaking, then fell limp.

  [Attention! Key ally died: Seneschal Lola]

  —

  Some time before the declaration, Ian was in the warehouse…

  The warehouse smelled of damp wood and stale dust; the air clung to the back of Ian’s throat and made him want to cough, but he was too afraid to draw attention. Shadows pooled in the corners where lanternlight didn’t quite reach, and the faint scuttle of rats somewhere behind the crates kept him on edge.

  What if the enemy learned about their plans?

  He stepped inside, boots crunching on grit scattered across the stone floor, and his gaze immediately flicked to the treasure cart.

  Relief trickled through him when he saw it was still there, the wagon’s iron-banded enormous storage lashed down with rope. Two squat lizards, their scales dull bronze under the lamplight, shifted restlessly in their harness, tails scraping against the floor with soft thuds.

  Six players were already gathered near the cart.

  They looked so at ease… leaning back against barrels, trading jokes, laughter echoing too loudly in the cavernous space. Ian felt small in comparison, like a guest at someone else’s party. He raised a hand, hoping the gesture looked casual instead of stiff. “Hey,” he said, voice carrying more squeak than he intended. “We’ll go soon.”

  The group quieted just enough for one of them to nod. “Yeah,” the nearest player said, stepping forward with easy confidence. “We’re Diamond Squad. Don’t worry, the cart’s safe. Won’t let ’em touch it.”

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Ian forced a quick nod, though doubt gnawed at him anyway.

  He perched on the edge of the cart, careful not to look like dead weight, but his stomach twisted with the thought that everyone could see how out of place he was.

  Driving… that was his job. At least he had practiced earlier, steering the cart through Altandai’s crooked alleys, pretending he wasn’t lost half the time. That counted for something, right?

  The warehouse doors scraped open again.

  Another cluster of players entered, boots stamping, armor gleaming a bit more polished than Diamond’s. The Diamond squad leader lifted a hand with a cocky grin. “Hey, Platinum team!”

  Groans followed, good-natured but competitive, and Ian tried not to shrink further into his seat. Platinum’s leader just smirked, shaking his head. “Next time we’ll get you.”

  The banter bounced easily between them. Ian stayed quiet, fingers curled tight around the worn wood of the driver’s bench, trying not to think about how much safer the treasure cart would probably be with anyone else holding the reins.

  The heavy doors creaked open again, spilling another group inside. Their boots clattered without rhythm, their armor scratched and dull. The air shifted as both Diamond and Platinum squads exchanged a single, synchronized scoff. “Bronzies,” someone muttered, and laughter rippled through the stronger teams.

  The newcomers didn’t even bother to argue. A few rolled their eyes, one shrugged as if this humiliation was routine, and they drifted toward the far wall like shadows trying not to be noticed.

  Scamantha strode into the warehouse after them like she owned the floor, a leather satchel bouncing against her hip and the faint reek of alchemical fumes trailing behind her. She didn’t waste words… just pulled bottle after bottle free, the liquid inside glowing faintly, like molten emeralds trapped in glass.

  “Guys, each of you gets one.” Her voice was brisk, already moving down the line of players. “These can’t be stored in inventory, so strap them to your belt. We need it. Each one of you needs to have it.” She shoved a vial into the hands of a Diamond bruiser who looked like he’d rather have another axe, pressed one against the chest of a grinning Platinum rogue, then made sure even the bronzies got theirs.

  Ian accepted it with both hands, like it might shatter if he so much as breathed wrong.

  The glass was cool, slick with faint condensation, and he fumbled with the stopper before realizing she’d already moved on.

  And then, just as suddenly as she’d appeared, Scamantha slung the now-lighter satchel over her shoulder and walked straight back out into the night.

  No flourish, no explanation.

  Just gone.

  Ian blinked after her, the potion still clutched awkwardly in his palm. He glanced around, waiting for someone else to comment, but everyone was already tucking their bottles onto belts or into makeshift holsters like it was routine.

  But one figure slipped when she left. Her robes weren’t ragged exactly; just the patchwork look Rimelion’s system always gave to sporewear, stitched to cling at the right places, hinting at more than they hid. Her pale skin caught the lanternlight like porcelain, her smile easy and confident in a way that made Ian’s chest tighten.

  “Ah, Ian, bonjour, mon cher!” she sang out, voice lilting and warm as honey. She didn’t just wave… she glided across the room and, without hesitation, climbed up onto the cart. Onto his cart. Onto the bench right beside him.

  Ian blinked, panic spiking like he’d missed a quest prompt. “Uh… do I know you?” His voice cracked at the end, and he hated it.

  Her eyes sparkled as she leaned in, close enough he caught the faint scent of something floral, impossible in this dusty warehouse. “Oh, pas encore,” she said, dragging the words out playfully. Her gaze slid down him… head to boots, lingering longer than was comfortable… before returning to his face. “Je m’appelle Phèdre, and Fty told me you’re the one who needs…” She let the pause hang, lips curving into a grin. “Protection.”

  Ian’s ears went hot.

  She tilted her head, lashes lowering as if she were sharing a secret. “I can’t swing a sword to save my life, mon cher, but…” her voice dropped softer, silkier, “I can heal you. If you get blessé.” The way she said it lingered, suggestive, as if she wasn’t just talking about battle wounds.

  “That’s… uh, great?” Ian managed, his nod jerky. “Happy to have you on board?” The words slipped out wrong, sounding more like a question than a welcome.

  She laughed… a bright, bubbling sound that drew a few looks from Diamond squad. Ian wished he could melt into the wood of the cart.

  Instead of giving him space, she slid an inch nearer on the bench, knees brushing his. Every time he shifted away, she somehow drifted closer again, smiling innocently. Then she reached out without asking, tugging his scarf straight as if it mattered. Her fingers lingered a moment too long on his collarbone before pulling back. “Voilà. Much better, mon cher,” she murmured, eyes glinting.

  When Diamond cracked another joke across the room, she leaned in as if to comment… but her lips brushed so close to his ear he stiffened. “You’re adorable when you look nervous,” she teased softly.

  “Uhmm… eh, Lunaris?” he managed to say. What was wrong with him?!

  “Her? Oh… you’re the one storing all the treasure they rob?” she asked sweetly, voice loud enough for the others to hear. “Alors, that makes you the richest man in the room, mon cher, hm?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Don’t worry. I’m very good at keeping secrets. On Earth, and here, I have a tattoo on my back. Each different. Want to see and compare?”

  A cold shimmer of steel cut through the dim warehouse light. A longsword’s edge came to rest just under Phèdre’s chin, close enough that Ian swore he heard the faint scrape as her necklace shifted against the blade.

  “Phèdre.” The name carried like frost. Ian twisted around, wide-eyed, to see Lunaris clinging awkwardly to the side of the cart with one hand, the other steady and deadly as she held the sword level. Her mismatched eyes—sapphire and crimson—looked harder than steel. “Ian’s not interested in your tattoo.”

  Ian’s pulse jumped. Had he missed something he was supposed to notice? He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, praying no one saw how red his ears had gone.

  Phèdre only laughed, a throaty, careless sound, tilting her head ever so slightly as if the sword was no more dangerous than a twig. “Oh, you little thing!” she purred, pressing one painted nail against the blade’s flat and pushing it aside as though brushing lint from her clothes. “Can’t you share?”

  The only answer was Lunaris’s voice, so soft Ian almost thought he imagined it. “No.”

  Then Lunaris raised her chin, voice slicing through the warehouse with sudden command. “We’re moving out! Prepare!”

  The other squads jolted to attention, chatter dying as boots scuffed against the floor and gear was gathered. Ian sat frozen on the driver’s bench, caught between the lingering warmth of Phèdre’s grin and the chill of Lunaris’s blade.

  And all he could think miserably was that he was definitely, definitely not the guy anyone should fight over… and no idea why Lunaris had agreed to go on lunch with him.

  Scamantha somehow ended up on the cart again… he didn’t even see her climb aboard, but there she was, sprawled across the chest of treasure like a cat claiming a sunspot. Ian swallowed hard and decided not to question it.

  He fumbled with the lizards’ harnesses instead, grateful for the distraction of something practical to do.

  The reins were rough in his palms, the smell of scaled hide and oiled leather sharp in his nose. The creatures hissed low, tails twitching, and with a tug they pulled.

  Lunaris wedged herself neatly between him and Phèdre on the bench. Her armored shoulder brushed his arm, solid and protective, a quiet wall that made it impossible for Phèdre to sidle closer.

  Ian’s ears burned anyway.

  The cart creaked forward, wheels clattering against the cobbles as it rolled out of the warehouse and into the narrow streets. Diamond squad took the lead, Platinum brought up the rear, and the so-called bronzies fanned out along both flanks… an escort Ian wasn’t sure was reassuring.

  They had barely settled into a rhythm when it hit them.

  A wave of mana, heavy and suffocating, rolled across the street like a sudden wind with no source. Ian sucked in a breath; this wasn’t like the bright crackle of fireworks earlier. The cart kept rolling, lizards snorting uneasily, and then, above them, the air shimmered. A massive projection bloomed overhead, painting the cobbles in a ghostly light.

  The city square stretched across the sky, larger than life. Queen was there—their Charlie—standing opposite the grandmasters. Voices rose; words carried even through the projection. Ian’s chest squeezed, torn between awe and dread.

  Phèdre leaned back with a wicked grin. “Cute red grandmaster. I want to go to dinner with him.”

  Lunaris shot her a glance, but before she could retort, the scene above shifted… Charlie’s voice rang out. And she actually declared war.

  “Neat,” Scamantha said from her sprawl on the chest, as if Charlie’s proclamation was just background music. “Good speech, I guess.”

  They rolled onward until they reached the square by the Purple House, and they were waiting for a signal. Overhead, the projection flickered again. A voice thundered from the sky: “Count Itzel sends his regards.”

  The words curdled in Ian’s gut.

  “That’s our cue,” said Diamond’s leader, drawing steel.

  “Yep. Time to kill them,” Platinum’s leader added, his grin wide. Both squads turned… not toward an enemy in the street, but toward the cart. Toward Ian. Toward the bronzies. Swords raised.

  Ian froze. His breath stuck halfway out of his chest.

  Phèdre hiccuped nervously, clutching her staff, but Scamantha… Scamantha laughed. “Really? After they trusted you?”

  The Diamond leader hesitated, sword half-lifted. “They?”

  Scamantha sat up slowly, her grin sharp. “Yes. They.”

  Her fingers snapped.

  The air filled with a sudden whoomph. Every potion hanging from Diamond and Platinum’s belts flared alight, glass cracking in brilliant orange. For a moment, Ian thought it was just sparks… then the fire spread, racing across leather, cloth, skin.

  The players screamed.

  It wasn’t the sound of battle cries, but panicked wails. Flames clung to them like shackles, climbing higher with every breath, consuming hair, armor, flesh.

  Ian could only watch, horror twisting his stomach, as the smell hit… burnt cloth, scorched skin, acrid potion fumes. He wanted to look away, but his eyes refused, locked on the sight of them thrashing until the fire hollowed them out, leaving silence where laughter had been moments before.

  Scamantha dusted her hands off, casual as ever.

  “I expected some problems.” Her grin returned, far too pleased. She patted the treasure chest beneath her like it was a pet. “Now, let’s get some money, shall we?”

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